stagnant

Spring begins

But there is no rebirth

Stagnancy stills the beating heart

The ebb and flow of creation clot

While the rivers of motivation desiccate

And the fountains of feeling run their course

There begins the showers of flowers

A mockery of the carnations I write about

The marigolds lining my throat

While the blossoms drown me

Spring wrings out the same, ancient thoughts

The cycle sets in, the ideas pour through

I am locked and trapped

The flowers laugh at me, they know the art of changing

This art I have not mastered

And never will

Winter solstice strikes

But there is no celebration

There is no snow to blanket the bad

The trees are mere ghosts pressed against the corpse of a mountain

Numbness replaces anxiety, and the feelings go

I panic; breathe, but there are aconites along my lungs

I am forced to panic

Forced to relive the days of idleness

My hands are left wanting, empty

The wall is sneering back at me

Hates the weary, blank expression

There is nothing, everywhere,

A concoction of “used to be” and “what if”

The hatred of myself flows through xylem, phloem, veins, arteries

I speak the language of flowers

But they hold their tongue as I bleed mine

Autumn spites

Aborted attempts of setting apathy aright

Orange lilies matching auburn leaves

And I start crying

This is the season of breakdowns

My pen has never seen more stains on my hands

My arm has never been acquainted with pen scratches so familiarly

I wanted to write, but not like this

I wanted inspiration, but not through depression

Here it is: I am afraid of myself

If to care is to want, then my life is careless

If there is no change, there is no point

The cycle continues, and I am left behind,

A prisoner petrified of never leaving

The flowers have stopped laughing

They know too much about change to make levity out of leaving

Summer blooms

And I am on clotheslines and window sills

Suddenly, the taste of cherries and watermelon

Burst, blood on my tongue; I’ve bitten through

But at least I can feel

If I carry summer inside me

Will the sunflowers face me and sing?

If I carry summer inside me

Will I learn how to taste the sunlight every day?

The flowers know me now, I have swallowed their meanings

Inebriated myself on their mantras

They tell me I must carry summer in me, always

Summer storms will not fade, that is true

Summer days are cloudy, too

But so long as summer lives in me

I will become acquainted with the light